


Home For The Holidays

by HelldiverOfLykos



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Christmas, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, John left Sherlock, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Pining, Pining Sherlock, Poor Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock falls apart, Sherlock is Alone, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-08 22:27:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5515574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HelldiverOfLykos/pseuds/HelldiverOfLykos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It had been a year since Magnussen. A year since Mary. A year since Sherlock almost got sent on a suicide mission.</p>
<p>A year since John left.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home For The Holidays

**Author's Note:**

> This idea came to me recently and it was just BEGGING to be written, so I wrote it. Obviously. I haven't been posting so much these days (sadly) because my creative juices have been completely drained (somehow.) Hope you guys like this!
> 
> Merry Christmas!
> 
>  
> 
> Some.things to note: this contains mentions of **drugs and drug use.** If you're not comfortable with reading about this kind of thing, this probably isn't for you.

It had been a year since Magnussen. A year since Mary. A year since Sherlock almost got sent on a suicide mission.

A year since John left.

After Mary had left London (and the country,) things had changed, and certainly not for the better. John had stayed in the flat he had shared with Mary. He hadn't returned to Baker Street. Sherlock thought he would come around eventually, but time proved him wrong as the days slipped by. When Sherlock finally called to check on him, there was no answer. Not for the first time, not for the second time, not for any of the 15 times Sherlock dialed his number. So he tried (and God forbid that he would ever do this again) asking Mycroft for help. And he found that John had left. He had left no trail for Sherlock to follow; he'd used cash instead of his credit card, he'd turned his phone off, he'd even avoided all _security cameras._

Needless to say, Sherlock had been devastated. His one and only friend had left him, and now he was alone again. Life lost its color. The days blurred into each other. He almost never left the flat. What reason was there for him to? Life was pointless now. Maybe it was stupid, and maybe it was asking too much of the universe, but the only reason Sherlock was still alive was because he hoped that one day, John might return. Return to London, return to Baker Street, return to _Sherlock_.

But for now, there was only emptiness and pain. The little things that reminded him of John felt like stabs in the chest when they had once made him smile. The familiar sounds of John pottering around in the kitchen or John chicken-pecking at his keyboard or John grumbling about _the mess in the bathroom, Sherlock. What the **hell** had he been doing in there?_ lingered like ghosts and made him feel like shooting himself. Well, not really. It wasn't the sounds themselves that made him feel like putting a bullet in his skull, it was more the lack of them. Sometimes some small object caught his eye- a favorite book of John's, the mug that he _always_ used, the Union Jack cushion on John's chair- and he would pick it up and put it in a box in John's old room and leave as fast as possible, lest the cracks in his heart grow bigger and split his heart in two.

As the days turned to weeks, and the weeks into months, a new smattering of pockmarks appeared on Sherlock's forearms. Morphine. Sometimes heroin, but usually morphine. He'd been caught at a den once or twice by some nosy reporter, and the media pounced. His face was on the news and celebrity gossip shows (yes, he counted as a celebrity now) for ages. Like he cared. Nothing mattered now. Not the Work, not the criminal activity in and around London, not any of the problems people still tried to come to him with, nothing. Nothing mattered without John.

It was now Christmas day. A year since Sherlock's life began to fall apart. He was alone, like so many years before. _Like all those years before John._ Sherlock was slumped in his chair, looking around the room. It seemed like a lifetime ago that Molly and Gary(?) and Mrs. Hudson and John's (ex)girlfriend had been here to celebrate Christmas with him and John.

_John. I wonder where you are now. Are you alone, like me, or are you with friends, new or old? Are you happy? I sincerely hope you are. Do you still remember me-_

Sherlock's train of thoughts was cut off by the buzzing of his phone in his pocket.

_**Unknown number** _

Sherlock frowned. Probably another reporter. But he hit answer, anyway.

"If you're looking for an interview, you can piss off-" he started, but never finished. Because a voice that had haunted him for a year cut him off.

"Hi."

He was sure he was hearing things. _But what if it really was him?_

"John?" Sherlock sincerely hoped his voice wasn't was broken as he thought it sounded.

"It's me, Sherlock." John's voice was shaky. _Overwhelming emotion. Had he really missed me? Or is he upset?_

"You never picked up the phone."

"I couldn't. I'm so sorry. I wanted to, but I knew if I answered, you'd ask me to come back."

"You could have said something, anything."

"I know. But you'd have come looking for me." John's voice was small and apologetic. _He didn't want to do it. But why did he leave, anyway?_

"Why did you leave?"

"I needed to be alone. Sort things out."

"And you couldn't even have told me you needed space?" Sherlock was almost yelling down the phone now.

"I told you already, I knew you'd come and look for me. Please don't hate me." John sounded like he was almost in tears by this point. Sherlock felt a pang of guilt pierce his chest.

"I don't hate you. I apologise if I sounded angry."

"I don't blame you. I just wanted to call and wish you a Merry Christmas."

_It might actually be a merry Christmas if you were here with me._

"Merry Christmas to you, too, John."

"I sent you a present. It should be outside."

"Thank you, John, but you really didn't have to." Sherlock started heading down the stairs, anyway. One more piece of John for him to hold on to. John never said he'd be coming back, so he might as well cling to whatever he left behind.

"No, I wanted to. Hope you like it."

Sherlock wrapped his dressing gown tighter around himself as he reached the front door.

"I'm sure I wi' he started (but never finished, once more) as he opened the door and a wall of cold air hit him.

As well as a pair of cobalt blue eyes. And sandy blonde hair that was edging its way to a muted gold-silver. And a sliver of oatmeal-colored jumper peeking out from underneath a familiar brown coat.

Sherlock almost dropped his phone.

Was he dreaming? Was he seeing.things? Hallucination? Side effect of the drugs, maybe. But what if it really was him?

Sherlock reached a hand slowly, ever-so-slowly, and his fingers brushed a face he had come to know and _love_. Blue eyes, bright with tears and happiness and sadness and _hope_ stared back into his.

The realization hit him like a brick wall.

_John is here John is here JohnishereJohncamebackhe'sherehe'sherehe'shere_

Rough, calloused fingers brushed over his. The sounds of the streets of London faded out. The world blurred. The only thing in focus: John Hamish Watson.

He almost didn't hear John calling his name.

"Sherlock?"

"You're really here," Sherlock whispered, his voice cracked and trembling. It just seemed too good to be true. The last time something this good had happened to him was when he met John for the first time.

The tears in John's eyes brimmed over and tracked down his cheeks. Snowflakes had begun to drift down from the clouds above London and some settled in John's hair and on his eyelashes. It was freezing, and Sherlock was clad only in his pjyamas and dressing gown, but he didn't care. 

_John is back._

"I'm here." John smiled through his tears and clasped his hand over Sherlock's. "I'm so sorry for leaving, Sherlock. I didn't realise what it would do to you."

"Are you really back?"

"Yes. And I'm not leaving ever again. I promise."

They didn't say anything for a minute or so. They just stood, connected by their hands in the falling snow with their breaths swirling white between them.

Until John leaned up onto his tiptoes and pressed his lips to Sherlock's.

And the world was complete. The cracks in his heart had been filled. The color returned to his life. Sensation was restored. The emptiness and numbness and aching of his heart was gone. All that remained was him and John.

Gentle hands grasped his face and pulled him closer. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John.

_He'sherehe'sherehe'shomehelovesmehelovesmeJohnJohnJohnJohn_

_John loves me. John loves me._

When they finally broke apart, Sherlock found his face damp with tears. John's eyes still glistened with unshed tears. But they were smiling.

"Don't you want your present?"

"I thought you were my present," Sherlock smiled playfully.

"I'm just part of it."

"What's the other part?"

"I love you."

"And I love _you._ "

John smiled. It was one of those tiny, soft smiles that Sherlock almost never saw. Sherlock had almost forgotten what John's smiles looked like. Ever since Magnussen and Mary, he almost never smiled. Well, not genuinely, anyway.

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock."

"Merry Christmas, John."

"Shall we go upstairs? I'm sure you'd like to unwrap your present."

"Oh, John."

**Author's Note:**

> My tumblr is **willasherlyscottholmes** Comments and kudos are always welcomed!


End file.
